Last Requests
by KatZen
Summary: The last requests are the hardest ones to honour.
1. The Aftermath

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Sleep deprivation, a late night screening of **_**Titanic **_**with friends and a laptop stuck on a repetitive loop of **_**The Fast Food Song**_** produced this. **

**Never done something like this before, so any feedback, good or constructive (well, concrit's good, right?) would be welcome.**

**Oh, and this is a stand-alone story, with no relation to anything else I've written. Maybe it needs a tissue warning. Maybe.**

Last Requests

_The last requests can be the hardest ones to honour_

_The Aftermath_

Boots left at the entrance to my hanger.

Sodden socked footsteps leading from the lounge to my suite.

Shiver slightly, but not from the iciness of the water I was in not more than an hour ago.

Only to recover bodies.

Well, only one body in particular.

Draw the blanket, also saturated with water, tighter to my body. My selfishly, _alive and kicking_ body.

"Son."

Deep gravelly voice addressing me. Tall figure casting an imposing shadow on the path to my room. The venerated head of International Rescue talking to me. No one else, but me. I can hear the empathy in his voice, but I don't want to hear it.

"Debrief in twenty minutes. Take a warm shower and get into some dry clothes."

I raise one shoulder indifferently. What difference could a debrief make? How can analysing what the hell went wrong make for improvements in the way we, as International Rescue, functioned? Nothing is the same anymore. Not after the last rescue. Not with one brother upset that his toy submarine's been mangled beyond belief and the other brother lying still, too still, on the spinal board, white sheet over his head…

No!

If I don't think about it, it can't be true.

Even though it is.

If I can convince myself that this is a dream, or rather, a nightmare, then it can't be real.

Except that it is. I can delude myself all I want, but reality has a way of just biting me on the butt, hard, to get me to face facts.

Head lowered, letting damp hair plaster itself to my eyes. Jaw jutting out with attitude, spite and self-disgust evident in my tone. "What. Ever."

I push my way past him, feel the wave of uncontrolled emotion well up as I think of my brother, the fallen hero.

I disregard the order to shower and instead, head over to his room instead. Even though it's futile, I knock on the door, wait outside to gain entrance. It's stupid; he'll never tell me that it's okay to enter again. I enter, feel like I'm trespassing and observe. There's nothing else to do.

Without his presence, the room is larger, and emptier than I've ever seen it. Without him sprawled out on his bed, or slouching on his sofa or even casually leaning against the wall, the suite seems incomplete.

Everything's just as he left it; books ordered alphabetically and then with the Dewey decimal system on his shelves. A touch OCD for my liking, but to each their own. Pot plant wilting next to the balcony doors because he had forgotten to water it. The cheesecake calendar one of us brothers had bought him as a joke – the one Dad wanted to dispose of – hangs proudly on his wall, defiantly displaying the month of September, even though it's four days from the beginning of November. The mountain of paperwork on his desk that would never be completed by him. So many ideas and plans that wouldn't come to fruition. Something catches my eye. I turn to his nightstand, where a white envelope with my name has been propped up against an inverted tumbler. Curious, I open it, collapse down onto his bed and begin to read.

It isn't long before the tears fall, before my vision becomes obscured, before I scrunch up his letter in my hands as I scream silently in pain. My heart slams against my ribcage, threatening to break free and spare me from the gaping wound that's formed, but it doesn't.

I struggle with it, but I eventually get to his last request.

His, seemingly impossible, last request of me.

It shreds my insides, rips through every organ, muscle and cell I possess. How could I possibly honour his last wish after the most recent rescue?

How can I possibly continue to be a member of International Rescue when it was International Rescue that cost my brother his life?


	2. The Happening

**Disclaimer: ********The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

Last Requests

_The last requests can be the hardest ones to honour_

_The Happening_

From the low geostationary synchronised orbit Thunderbird Five was locked in, John Tracy relayed the latest rescue call to the team back on terra firma.

"A two cruise ship collision. Both are sinking rapidly, much faster than anyone had anticipated. While both vessels have enough lifeboats to cater for all the passengers on board, the crews of both ships are worried that they won't be able to get away far enough to avoid the suction when both ships sink."

"Alright, John," Jeff nodded grimly. "Let them know we're on our way and we'll be there soon."

"FAB."

Scott was the first one to respond to the emergency call that resounded around the building. "Where're we headed, what's the nature of the rescue call and what equipment do we need?"

"The details are being uploaded into the Thunderbirds so you can read them en route to the rescue site. Two cruise ships sinking after colliding with each other in Cape York, Greenland. I'm sending Virgil and Gordon with you, along with Thunderbird Four, some Platform People Movers and a few of our own life saving devices. Alan will sit this one out."

"No need for Mobile Control or Thunderbird One, then," Scott surmised, furrowing his eyebrows. There was nowhere to set his craft down, nor was there a suitable place for him to set up Mobile Control. "Guess I'm travelling in Two, then."

* * *

Gordon was deployed from within Thunderbird Four. The Pod was released into the water with a rather big splash and Gordon was free to run a body heat sensor scan to see if anyone had been stranded below the open decks.

Above in Four's sister ship, Scott waited, jittery, ready for action as Virgil continued to hover over the rescue site.

"What's taking him so long?" Scott snapped at Virgil, fingers drumming along one of the barriers on the Platform People Mover. It was a flat platform, attached to a harness system so it could be winched and released from Thunderbird Two as necessary, whilst being able to carry one hundred people to safety at a time.

"It takes time, Scott. Y'know, patience really isn't a virtue you were born with, is it?"

"It's not about virtue, Virg. It's human life down there and all the time we waste up here decreases their chance of survival."

A few more moments of silence, each stretching out into an eternity before the intercom crackled into life.

"I have a small gathering of heat signals. I've picked up about twelve of them that are strong readings." A moment of sombre silence. "There are quite a few blue spots as well."

On the heat sensors installed, the colour blue meant that the person wasn't emitting any heat. They were most likely dead.

"Get me down there, Virg. I can help the ones who are still alive."

More determined than ever to render assistance, the Platform People Mover emerged from the base of Thunderbird Two, descending into what would be the watery pits of hell.

* * *

The water was shit cold, even through all the protective layers of wetsuit Scott was wearing. It was so cold that none of the hotspots had lasted by the time he had half-swum, half waded to them. There was nothing Scott could do, except slide their eyelids shut and offer up an apology, the way he always did when he was too late before moving lower down the decks.

From behind him, he heard the echo of a door sliding shut, dead bolts slipping into place.

Panic rose up in his throat like bile.

_Not good to hear dead bolts on a sinking ship. In deep shit now, Tracy._

A quick call to John – thank God the wrist watches were fireproof, waterproof and any other proof Brains could think of – since the blonde haired Tracy had the blueprints and schematics of the cruise ship_ Angeles._

"John? What did I just hear? Please tell me there's another way out of here!"

Teeth chattering involuntarily now. Other senses more wired to his surroundings. Adrenaline kicking in.

A keening sound in the background. A shrill shriek of _"Daddy!"_

Legs like lead churning him clumsily through the water, moving towards the sound, moving towards hope.

"Int-Internation-nal R-r-rescue," Scott stammered in a poor impression of Brains. "I'm com-coming! Just hang on!"

Water at the base of his ribcage now. Rising rapidly. He'd wager he'd have about half an hour before the water swamped over his head. Used a frozen stiff shoulder blade to ram open a cabin door. Two figures in the room; one most definitely alive, the other one just barely clinging to life.

Gasping breath from the one who was only just alive. "You. Please, get my son out. Keep Tobias safe."

Two ice-cold hands clasped together, an oath sealed before one hand slackened.

A solemn promise. "I will. You have my word."

A quick check of the five year old boy, who was in good shape, considering the circumstances. An open hand held out to the little tyke, a ticket to safety. The boy shied away from it.

"Daddy told me never to leave his sight. Daddy told me about stranger danger."

"Tobias," Scott said, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. A moment of trusting connection. Determination on Scott's part to reassure the boy, so he forced himself to stop his teeth from chattering against their will for the rest of the time he was with Tobias. "Your Daddy will understand why you had to leave him this time. Your Daddy will forgive you if it means you're safe."

And all at once, the little boy acquiesced, throwing his arms around Scott's neck and launching his body weight into the elder of the two. Scott caught Tobias just in time, hugging the child closer to him as a means of comfort and warming the boy up with his insufficient body heat.

"John, I really need that alternate pathway now!"

"I've found one! I'll guide you through it, but you'll have to move fast. I don't know when that waterproof compartment's going to close, and if it does, that's it."

Moving fast was a good suggestion. The water was now midway up his chest.

"Okay, Tobias, I need you to hold on tight. As tight as you possibly can."

Tobias just hugged him that much closer.

Legs slowing down, muscles seizing up as Scott struggled valiantly against the rising water, against the cold, against the fog that infiltrated his mind, against the dead weight of a boy in his arms, against all the factors that were conspiring against him. A turn at a t-junction of corridors.

"No, Scott!" John howled through the watch. Time was of the essence and stupid little errors could throw everything out of sync. "I said left, not right!"

"Okay," Scott replied, standing for a millisecond so he could let his brain catch up with his body.

"_Move, Scott! Don't just stand there! Move, Goddammit, move!"_

Water in line with the centre of his heart. Felt his pulse rate drop from the shock of it. Tobias' toes skimmed the water now. The boy shivered involuntarily against Scott's body. Scott forced himself to move, neurones firing through sluggish muscle tissue. Moving like the _Wizard of Oz's _Tin-Man after being left in a thunderstorm, joints all rusted together now.

So easy to slip into oblivion. So easy to close his eyes, lean back and relax. Not so cold now; the water was feeling quite tepid. Never a good sign. But he couldn't give in. Not now, not yet. So he pushed forward, fighting the current that threatened to drag him under.

"That's it, Scott, you're almost there," John encouraged, hoping this would keep Scott fighting.

Just five more steps for Scott to travel.

Four…

Three…

Tobias shifted slightly as Scott took another smaller step.

One wetsuit clad arm moved jerkily forward.

The sound of creaking.

Tobias nestled his wet hair against Scott's drenched locks, closed his eyes in realisation. Scott could feel light whiskers of eyelashes flutter across his cheek.

Time moved in slow motion, or time ran out.

Pressure building up from the outside in, or from the inside out. Brain processing information so slowly, so that Scott wasn't sure which one was correct.

Rivets popping, metal pinging acting as a warning, metal sheets breaking, splintering like it was as weak as rotted wood.

It was over.

He had failed.

Couldn't keep that damn last request.

"John." Scott's last words, and they both knew it. Despondent, resigned to his fate, but there were no tears on his part. The calm before the storm. "It's over. I'm sorry."

"You've nothing, absolutely nothing, to be sorry for, Scott. You did your damn best."

"Tell them…"

It didn't need to be said.

"I will, Scott. They know, but I'll tell them anyway."

Silence. Metal pinging drawing closer. The tidal wave of water rushing towards them.

There was nothing left for it.

"I hate goodbyes, so I'll catch ya later, John."

The rush of water overpowered whatever was said next. The storm before the calm.

And then there was stillness, and silence.

The calm after the storm.


	3. The Letter

**Disclaimer: ********The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: For everyone that's read and reviewed thank you so much for the reviews, they really do mean a lot. Whirlgirl, since I can't reply to your review, I hope this chapter explains the letter and other squiggly parts. **

**Maybe another tissue warning needed for this chapter too. Hope you guys enjoy (well, maybe enjoy isn't the right word, but I think you know what I mean). **

Last Requests

_The last requests can be the hardest ones to honour_

_The Letter_

Hands trace lightly over the childish scrawl that comprises my brother's handwriting. The 'V' is slightly more indented then the rest of the letters. A water droplet splashes down on the envelope, over the curl of the 'g'. Ink tracks down, a blue streak against the starkness of the white.

I hesitate, toying between opening it and not, since any reminder of him hurts too much. I wonder how he knew to leave the letter out, and how he knew to address it to me. I have questions that only he could answer. Curiosity wins over pain and I resolve to open it soon, if only to gain some closure.

Anything to take away the last image of Scott; limp, broken beyond repair.

It was me who went down to recover his body, for a two-fold reason. When Scott was Field Commander, he would always take responsibility for the fatalities. He would always be the one that offered condolences to the family, would always deal with the fallout from a catastrophe. As Second in Command in the field, that responsibility fell on me. Seeing the still form of the brother we love was something I wanted to spare Gordon. He didn't need to see that. So I called Gordon back, retrieved his Pod from the water and instructed him to take the helm of Thunderbird Two. Lowered myself down on the Platform People Mover, dread lining the pit of my stomach. I could see the blue of his wetsuit floating atop the waves, buoyant in the water.

A small lump stuck to his chest, his arms wrapped around it as though he was unable to let go.

The outline of a small child.

Not too far – less than 120 yards away from where Gordon had guided Thunderbird Two, so I opened the barrier of the Platform People Mover and swam out to him to recover him. He felt solid, cold and clammy under my hands. Too still for my hyperactive brother, blue eyes dull, dead and open, unnerving, so I slid his eyelids shut and retracted the winch system.

Gordon took us back, while I stayed with Scott. While I held him and told him all the things I never had a chance to say before. While I divulged my deepest, darkest secrets to him.

While I told him to say hi to Mom and give her a hug from all of us.

While I filled out his death certificate.

I can't think about this anymore, so I still my thoughts and open the flap on the envelope and let the contents roll out. Ten more envelopes tumble out, each envelope addressed to someone Scott considered close family, along with an off-white folded note and a tarnished key. I perch on the edge of Scott's bed, unfold the note and begin to decipher his handwriting.

_Hey Virg, _

_To be honest, I hope you'll never see this letter, but I guess if you're reading this, something's gone horribly wrong. Or you've just been nosing around in my possessions again. Either way, it's not some light bedtime reading for you. If you're doing the latter, serves you right for rummaging around in my sock drawer. If it's the former… well, like I said before, something's gone terribly wrong, then._

_This is one of the hardest things I've ever written, not because I don't know what to say, but because this is the last thing you'll have from me, and there is just so much I want to say. So much stuff where I said I'd tell you later and never got around to it. So I want to make it good. I want to tell you things I won't have another chance to say. I want you to be able to read this without bawling like a baby. _

_Knowing you, though, I'd imagine you have questions only I can answer, the first one being how I knew to leave the letter in your sight._

_Well, the answer, the God's honest answer to that is that I didn't. Before we leave, before I head up to Command and Control, I always pull this out and leave it somewhere for you to find. Just in case. Talk about tempting fate, huh?_

_How did I know that you'd find it in my room? _

_Well, like I said before, Virg, you're my brother and I know you. You're the only one who would seek solace in here so soon after my demise._

It's true. I would be the only one to sneak into his room. Gordon, Alan, Dad, John, Tin-Tin, Brains and Kyrano won't approach it until several months, or maybe even years, have passed. It took Dad five years before he began to dispose of Mom's perishable items, like her hair products.

_Anyway, I'll get the serious stuff out of the way. There should be ten more letters enclosed in this one for everyone else. I'm trusting you to distribute them out for me. They all need some last words from me. And do me a favour; tell them not pester each other about what I've written. It's for their eyes only._

_As for the key, that's important. If you head over to my desk in Thunderbird One's hanger, you'll find a locked drawer. Use the key to open the lock; my will and all my other assets and valuables are in there. And distribute the photos from the album out between the four of you. They're the last ones I have with Mom in them, and I wouldn't let Dad throw them away when he went on that cleaning purge. I'm sorry I kept them from you for so long, but I never seemed to find the right opportunity to share them out myself. _

_Virg, you know I'm writing this because we've joined International Rescue, but I don't know when you'll read it. You may be reading this two days after I've written it, or it may be twenty years. I have no idea if I'll be married when you read this – Dad may be more willing to flex the 'family only' rule in the future – or if I've got a child or more, but if I do, I want you to be the one that helps them through this. I want you to be their shoulder to lean on. If I have a son by the time you read this, I want you to be the uncle he goes to for advice, since I'm not there. If I have a daughter (hey, it could happen), I want you to be the uncle that pulls out the shotgun to threaten scumbag boyfriends. Heaven knows that we've been on the end of that far too often as teenagers and now it's time to pass that tradition down._

I can't help but snort in amusement at that. Of all the Tracy boys, though, Scott was the one that was most acquainted with the shotgun. A nanosecond later, I feel sickened with myself, almost as though laughing has betrayed the sadness and despair I feel.

_I know this is asking a lot of you, Virg, and I know you may have a family of your own to look out for as well, but there's no one else I would trust to do that. _

It's a bit of a moot point. He was happily unattached to anyone, or at least, I think he was happy single. But I've always sensed that while he projected a happy face, it was a sore point for him.

_Do you have any regrets about joining IR, Virg? _

_We've asked each other that before, but I've always had the distinct feeling that we were never being completely honest with each other when we answered. _

_I have one regret. I'm not sure if you picked it up from the half-hearted shrug I did every time you asked the question, but I have one regret. But it doesn't do to dwell on it now, huh? We all make sacrifices for the things we believe are worthwhile._

I think I know what he regrets the most.

_I hope you don't have any regrets in signing up to IR, otherwise the next part could get awkward. Virg, don't let Dad give up on the organisation he's spent so long bringing to life. Don't let Alan, Gordon, or even John, walk away from this. There is still so much good you guys can achieve, even though I won't be there to help you. _

_Virgil, I know you as well as I know myself, so all I'm going to say is don't do it. You need International Rescue just as much as it needs you. If you won't stay in there for yourself, do it for me. Consider it my last request of you._

My hands clench tighter, the paper rips slightly. I feel indignant anger rage through me. How can he ask me to do that? How does he have the nerve to openly request me to keep working for the cause that had him killed?

_I guess this is getting long now, and your eyes are probably glazing over, so I'll spare your suffering and end it soon. Virg, you're my little brother, and even though we don't say this as often as we should – something about it resembling a girly-bonding session - I freakin' love you, man. _

_Take care of the others, and most importantly, take care of yourself._

_Scott._

It may be his last request of me, but I know I can't honour it. Not right now, not when this wound is still too sore. Maybe I'll be able to do it one day, but not today. I unpin the badge from my uniform, remove the sash and place them on his nightstand. I murmur an apology as I gather up the notes and leave his room, closing the door behind me.


End file.
